


A Hawke's Breakfast

by Viscariafields



Series: Leandra Hawke [18]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 3, Body Sharing, Body Swap, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Mentions of alcohol, hawke is a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields
Summary: Hawke wakes up to discover she is now her own dog.A nonsense story designed to make me laugh.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: Leandra Hawke [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462840
Comments: 79
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A dog's breakfast: a complete mess.

Hawke woke up on the floor in a sort of heap.

Yawning without opening her eyes, she wondered vaguely how much she’d had to drink last night. Nothing was coming to mind, but the floor didn’t feel all that uncomfortable, really, sort of cool on her belly and not as hard as she had imagined it would be, so maybe she was still a bit drunk. Or… something.

At the sound of the opening and closing of her front door, she stretched, her arms reaching in front of her, and decided she might as well figure out where she’d landed after a night of… whatever it was. Celebration? Grieving? Blood magic rituals? Massive head wounds?

Hawke stood up.

At least, she thought she stood up. Her vantage point did not change much, and she blinked a few times. Everything looked… tall. And sort of… bleak? Her bed was in front of her, above her, really, and it was still red, sort of, but also it wasn’t. And she didn’t seem to be standing properly because she was certain she was taller than this on a regular day. _And_ she could still feel the cool stone on her hands. Pushing herself up onto her legs took far more effort than it should have, and she quickly lost her balance, catching herself easily with her arms as she hit the floor again.

Maker, she must have been drunker than she thought. Or was she poisoned? She better be found quickly by whoever had just arrived. It was hard to think over the smell of it all. Her sheets could use a cleaning and the coals in the fireplace were disgustingly bitter and her chamber pot was frankly upsetting, even from all the way over here. It didn’t quite upset her stomach, but it was overwhelming her ability to figure out exactly what was wrong with her arms and legs.

And speaking of smells, she recognized her visitor, even as he dawdled somewhere downstairs. Fenris. Was she expecting him? No matter, just the scent of him wafting through the crack in the door made her heart race just a little. _Come on, Hawke,_ she sighed internally. Drunk, poisoned, or otherwise, she knew better than to let him have this effect on her. Yet now she had an altogether new feeling as she listened to him pad up her stairs, like she wanted to wiggle a bit, just sort of get her backside going. The urge got stronger and stronger as he approached the door, and she felt like she could barely contain it.

This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, who yes, was sort of stuck on the floor for some reason, and yes, had very strong feelings regarding the man rapidly approaching her, but she had tamped those down for _years_ in favor of a comfortable if somewhat charged friendship, and in any event, she had never expressed feelings of _any_ sort by wagging her rear at someone. She needed him to get here— _fast—_ and sort out whatever was wrong with her.

The door opened, and Hawke couldn’t help herself. She wagged.

“Good morning, Porthos,” he said, giving her head a pat while his eyes searched the room, “Did Hawke lock you in here by mistake?”

“What?” is what she tried to say, her backside still wagging like it had a mind of its own. The word that actually left her mouth sounded more like “Woof.”

“Woof,” she said again, “Woo—woof.”

Fenris sighed. “I’m sure you need to go outside.”

She followed him, her paws tapping on the stone. What else was there to do? He seemed to believe that she was her own mabari, and the evidence suggested that he was right. Now that she thought about it, she could sort of see her nose sticking out in front of her, not at all the flat one she was used to. And looking down, her front feet were a little strange in that they weren’t _hands_.

She had to know for sure. In the hall she pushed herself onto her hindlegs—why hadn’t she thought to put any mirrors at mabari height in her entire home? —and looked at her reflection.

Her first instinct was to bark.

That… probably settled it, even if she hadn’t recognized Porthos looking back at her. She blinked her right eye, and he mirrored it. Same with the left. They both waggled their ears. She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue and stared at her panting dog.

She really was Porthos. Somehow.

This all begged the question— if she was somehow him, was Porthos taking her body for a walk somewhere? Doing whatever it was a dog dreamed of doing if he were a man? Or woman, as the case may be?

“Be a good boy and hurry up,” Fenris sighed, holding open the door to her little courtyard for her. She obediently trotted out, and he leaned against the wall, watching her.

The tiny garden was overwhelming. Flowers and rubbish and insects everywhere catching her eye and there was a family of _mice_ living here, which was absolutely unacceptable, and she found herself sniffing every inch they had touched with their grubby little mouse hands.

Fenris cleared his throat, and she found him giving her a meaningful look. He was waiting for her to do something. Here, in the courtyard.

He meant for her to—he had brought her out here to—he wanted her to _go._ And he planned on standing there while she did it.

This was too much. This was untenable. Yes, there was an area that smelled right and her bladder was very full now that she was thinking about it and of course she wasn’t exactly sure how, as a dog, she would use the human facilities, but he was _facing_ her, waiting for her to do it. Like he was bored.

Hawke whined.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

 _Everything_ , she thought, _I need everything right now, an explanation and_ hands _and for everything to stop smelling so interesting, but mostly I need for you to turn around_.

Of course, Fenris couldn’t read dog minds or he might have been a bit more concerned about the dog in front of him. So Hawke looked at him, then slowly turned her back on him. After a moment she looked over her shoulder to see if he got the idea.

He hadn’t.

With a huff, she decided to model the behavior even better. She stood next to him, then turned to face the wall, sitting with her eyes focused ahead of her. After a moment, she turned to him again, and quickly gestured at the wall with her snout.

Fenris was frowning at her, brows heavy over his eyes, but he turned to face the wall. “Is that better?”

“Woof.”

She ran to the spot, and Maker, she couldn’t exactly explain why it was the _right_ spot, but she felt it in her sturdy canine bones, and she lifted a leg and got blessed relief. That would tell those mice they were on borrowed time, surely. Fenris started to turn his head mid-stream, but he snapped his gaze back to the wall at her thunderous bark.

“Since when do you require privacy?” he muttered.

That taken care of, Hawke was struck by just how good Fenris smelled. It was very intimate to be able to smell so much about a person, that he’d already had black tea this morning and his leggings could use a wash. His feet told her the path he took through Hightown, and his hands told her he’d written a letter recently with the ink still on them, but mostly as she snuffled up his legs, she was concerned about how he, as a person, smelled incredible. Normally Hawke appreciated not being able to smell a person at all. A lack of any olfactory input was a very much appreciated quality. But now his sweat had a certain depth to it, like colors she had never seen before, new notes of music previously unheard, and she her nose couldn’t seem to get enough of it.

“Alright, Porthos,” he laughed, a hand on her head as she explored him too thoroughly, “That’s enough for today.”

Then, to Hawke’s horror, before she could stop herself or even consider her next action, she licked his hand. It was right there, in front of her, smelling like him and breakfast and dirt and oil, and her tongue just… swept right across the whole thing.

Fenris was unbothered, thankfully, wiping his hand on his leggings.

“Show me where Hawke is,” he commanded. 

That… she could not do. She thought about it, cocking her head to the side. Without words, how _would_ she tell them all that she was now a dog?

Before she came up with an answer, Bodahn came into the courtyard and greeted Fenris. Now there was a man that smelled like an entire feast, and she _would_ be heading to the kitchens next to find whatever he left behind. But first, she’d need to give them both a message. She padded over to the dirt and started to scratch _I am Hawke._

“Stop that!” Bodahn shouted while she wrestled with making her paw write an ‘a’. Maker, this was not easy without hands. Why did the letters have to be all fiddly and round? It was even harder when Bodahn whacked her snout with a washcloth and then wrapped his arms around her middle. “I will not have you digging up Messere Hawke’s garden!”

 _It’s_ my _garden, and I’ll do what I want with it,_ she wanted to say. Instead she let out a kind of whining bark and allowed herself to be dragged by the collar back inside. And despite her whining, Fenris believed Bodahn when he said Hawke must have left early in the morning. With one last pat to her head, he left, and Hawke choked back the small howl building in her throat.

She forgot all about that when she arrived in the kitchen, however. Orana served her up what would have been Hawke’s breakfast, what still was Hawke’s breakfast, she told herself, because she was Hawke, still. Probably.

Mostly she was just so happy to be eating this breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2

Life as a dog wasn’t so bad. It was suddenly socially acceptable to sleep whenever and wherever she wanted. She could even plop down during a boring conversation and shut her eyes and nobody seemed bothered. Or she could just walk away and sniff something better than whoever was talking. She did _not_ miss wearing clothes whatsoever. Too many buckles. There were very few responsibilities put on her, and she could choose them as she saw fit. Warming Varric’s feet? Chasing mice from Merrill’s home? Growling at Isabela’s suitors? Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

Everyone liked to throw food at her, too. She supposed it would almost be offensive—who was to say she was even in the mood to eat—but suddenly food was the best thing that had ever happened to Hawke. She was certain she’d always liked food in the past, she ate as well as anyone, really, but now each morsel was like a revelation. And people just tossed them to her for fun. She had never felt such an outpouring of love for her fellow man. Or, well, not fellow, and they weren’t all men. People. Two-leggeds.

She was free to come and go as she pleased. Porthos was recognized around Hightown and Lowtown as the Champion’s dog, which afforded a certain amount of respect. He had, after all, bitten the Arishok on the ankles at least once. And even if he weren’t recognized, not many people were keen to prevent a two-hundred-pound dog from doing what he wanted to do.

She had the recognition and respect of the Champion, with none of the responsibility or blame for her general ineffectiveness. And free massages whenever she wanted.

Hawke was living.

She did have some concerns, however. For one thing, she missed her actual dog. If she remained Porthos forever, where was he? She wanted him back. And, of course, there was the whole mystery of whether he had her body or not, but after a few days, Hawke found that too exhausting to really puzzle out.

The other problem was everyone else. They missed Hawke. She overheard their conversations, worried words, theories of where she could be. Aveline suggested they wait for a ransom message. Kidnapped without a trace, someone _must_ want something. But of course, nothing came. They all waited together at the estate, weapons at the ready. Hawke wound between their legs, trying to hear all conversations at once, but mostly it was boring things about who was most likely to want her dead. She was tired of thinking about that sort of thing. Over it, really.

Soon enough, other duties called. Aveline said she would send word if anything came through the guard. Varric and Merrill trundled back to Lowtown to get a good night’s sleep in their own respective beds. Anders promised to alert them of any rumors out of Darktown. Fenris sat at the estate for two days waiting.

Nobody could believe she just left. For one thing, Hawke would never leave her dog behind. Every tense conversation when someone suggested perhaps the pressure had gotten to her, perhaps she fled to Ferelden or to find Bethany, someone would turn and look at Hawke, lying on the floor, wagging her little stump of a tail, and shake their head. She never would have left Porthos. They were all sure of that.

It hurt to think they could assume she would abandon all of them, though.

She rested her head on Varric’s lap, procuring an idle ear scratch. Porthos’s presence in the house, however, also shed doubt on the theory Hawke had been kidnapped or murdered. Wouldn’t the dog have protected Hawke? At the very least, wouldn’t he have alerted someone? Why had Fenris found him in Hawke’s room, unbothered and unharmed? Did anyone really think Hawke could be taken without a struggle, without a drop of blood anywhere?

When no ransom came, Fenris took Hawke outside, carrying a bit of clothing in his hand.

“I need you to track her,” he said to her, holding out her own socks he had fished out from her laundry pile. If Hawke had any dignity left, she might have been mortified. “You must be able to find her.”

She sniffed the socks, if only to be polite. Maker, she knew more about her own feet now than she truly cared to. Should she ever have hands again, she’d make sure to carefully scrub between each toe.

Fenris looked at her, hope plain across his face, and her heart broke.

_I’m right here_ , she wanted to say. Dogs didn’t really have shoulders to shrug. Not much for pointing, either. Instead she walked around in a circle and then sat, staring at him. Undeterred, he led her to the outside of her bedroom window and tried again.

“Did they take her from here?” he asked.

All Hawke could do was stare at him as his hope crumbled. “I’ll find her,” he promised her, a hand on her head, “I will discover what happened, and I will find her.”

That put a bit of a damper on the entire experience. Her wagging tail stilled; her head drooped. She did not like to see Fenris sad. She felt she would do anything to fix it.

Whatever caused her to be a dog had to have been magic, so she went to visit Anders. He made her wait in line as he dealt with people in the clinic, and whining at him didn’t move her up in place. He threw her out unceremoniously after she knocked over one of his many jars while chasing a stray cat, however, which she found incredibly unfair. What did he have against fun? He had more jars, and more cats. But he shut the door behind her and told her to come back when she learned manners.

Merrill was less bothered by Hawke sniffing through all her things. She also didn’t seem to notice any stray or alarming magic radiating off of Hawke, but then, Hawke wasn’t certain how anyone would feel any magic at all with that mirror around. She found her ears flattening against her head as she approached it, a growl in her throat. It didn’t even reflect her true form, as she thought it might, choosing to reflect nothing at all. She did not like it, no sir. Another dead end. Merrill did give her a biscuit, though, so she couldn’t count it as a wasted trip.

Bethany might have noticed the switch, Hawke thought. Certainly Bethany knew Porthos and Hawke well enough to tell if one of them had been replaced with the other. But Bethany wasn’t here.

Due diligence done on the whole ‘figuring out what happened to her’ front, Hawke was free to go back to enjoying her carefree life. Yes, she was a good boy. Yes, she would like a cookie. Her belly _was_ awfully soft and rubbable. Not to mention her muscles. Hawke the woman was no slouch, but Porthos the dog was _powerful_. She ran for joy. She bounded through the streets to the cheers or possible terrified screams of others. She was sure she’d be able to chomp her own dining room table in half and admired the restraint Porthos had shown in never doing just that.

“Porthos!” Hawke turned, tail wagging, to see Varric calling her. He shook his head. “Hawke’s been gone just a couple days and you’re terrorizing the whole city.” She kept wagging. She couldn’t argue with that. “I’ve been intercepting her complaints. Three of them just today that you’ve been trampling gardens in Hightown.”

This Hawke could explain. Her hatred of rats was new to her, and when she saw them, she was overcome with a passion for murder. As Champion of the city, it was her duty to make Hightown more hygienic, and the rats seemed to prefer to hide in gardens. Really, she was doing everyone a service.

This is what she would have said if she could speak. Instead, she rolled on her back and exposed her belly to Varric.

“Listen,” he said, dropping his voice low, “I know without Hawke you’re going a little wild. I want her back, too. But your shenanigans are bringing attention to the fact that she’s missing, and that might not be a great thing for all of us right now. So can you cool it? Maybe travel with one of us until Hawke gets back?”

She woofed an affirmative and busied herself following Varric around town, growling at everyone she knew annoyed him. It was enough to put her back in his good graces, though she was surprised when he brought her home, to her estate, rather than taking her to Lowtown. People rarely felt the need to explain things to a dog, Hawke was finding, so it was curious to smell the presence of all of her friends as soon as he opened the door for her.

In her living room was a meeting of sorts, and Varric took the last seat.

“We can’t let anyone know she’s missing,” Aveline said as soon as he was situated, “The bandits and smugglers in this town will have a field day.”

“Isn’t dealing with that problem, I don’t know, your job?” Isabela quipped.

“Shut it. Losing Hawke is like losing half my force.”

“Maybe you should have paid her more,” Varric muttered, “She might have stuck around.”

“Was she having money trouble?” Aveline asked.

Varric snorted. “No.”

“Well then I don’t see how _I_ could be the person responsible for driving her out.”

Hawke was missing some nuance here. As she looked around the room, everyone seemed to be glaring at Fenris. He seemed happy not to acknowledge the tension growing in the room. Hawke whined.

Anders broke the awkward silence, but only to make it worse. “Hawke once asked me to flee Kirkwall with her just before she became Champion. Two guesses as to what had just happened that spurred that line of thought.”

Hawke felt a growl in her throat. That was private information that she had trusted Anders to keep to himself after all this time. Fenris still said nothing.

“I think what Blondie is trying to say here, and what we are all wondering is whether anything happened between you and Hawke the other night.”

If Hawke could have sank further into the floor, she would have done it. It seemed they had all sort of settled on what they thought had happened to her—they thought she fled, tail between her legs, and abandoned them all. 

She didn’t have to look at Fenris to feel the discomfort oozing off of him. “Nothing happened,” Fenris finally said.

Anders let out a bitter laugh, clearly not believing him. “Maybe,” Anders said, “She left after being strung along by you for long enough. Maybe ‘nothing happened’ one too many times.” Maker’s breath, beyond the absolute humiliation that was all the people she loved talking about this, was Anders truly berating Fenris for _not_ sleeping with her? “We can all see that she’s still in love with you. Surely you’re not so blind as to pretend you don’t know it. So what? Can’t just let her off the hook and move on?”

Hawke covered her face with her paws. Fenris, choosing to ignore most of what Anders said, replied simply, “I do not believe she left of her own accord.”

It was watching Fenris and Anders continue to argue that jogged her memory. Some nights ago, when Hawke had two legs instead of four, and they were all trudging home after a miserable day where despite all of her efforts, she had somehow managed to make the city _worse,_ as if that was possible, Fenris had said something rude toward Anders, and Anders had predictably said something worse toward Fenris. Hawke had been staring at the night sky, exhausted, really, from everyone pulling her every direction at once, when Anders called Fenris a wild dog.

_I wouldn’t mind being a dog_ , she’d thought as a star streaked across the sky, _Sounds easier than being a Champion_.

And it was. She had imagined belly rubs and napping by the fire, praise and love and no notion of the future at all. Food tasted better and everyone smelled so interesting all the time. Even when people were angry at her for doing bad dog things, they still laughed and forgave her like it was nothing. It was simple, and it was exactly what she had wished for.

And it also meant that her friends were correct—she had left them in a fit of cowardice.

As Anders began to raise his voice, she put both paws on his chest and held him there, and whatever he was going to say next was dropped. She felt his shoulders droop, his breathing slow.

“There is one other option to find her, if she’s still even alive,” Anders said, “But we’d need some of her blood.”

She felt Fenris’s anger even before he said anything. Instead of a proper argument, however, all that really came out of him was a growl. It wasn’t the worst idea, though. Would magic reveal her? Or was she truly Porthos now? Then again, if her body was _somewhere_ , she’d quite like to make sure it was alright.

“I’ll go through her laundry,” Merrill offered, “She gets injured often enough.”

In the end, Hawke hadn’t bled on anything recently enough to be of use. Terrible luck on her part. But the meeting did convince her that it was, perhaps, time to really use what was left of her dog brain and tell her friends the truth. 

Hawke had a plan. Yes, mabari were intelligent, and yes, this was backfiring spectacularly at her. Who knew she was of the same level of intelligence as her dog? _Probably Carver_ , she thought to herself. Never mind. Dogs couldn’t write. She felt confident of this. Porthos had never once shown an inkling of reading or writing. He held correspondence with no one. So all she had to do was get her paws on some ink and write out a message.

She knew where Fenris kept his ink, and he seemed to be the only person who didn’t believe she’d run off. So when everyone shuffled out of her estate, she followed him. He paused only to ascertain that she was, indeed, going home with him, but he did nothing to dissuade her. Once inside, she ran straight for his writing desk.

The problem with paws is that they were _clumsy_. In her haste and enthusiasm to get this message out, she managed to scatter all of his papers everywhere. Hopefully they weren’t important. They couldn’t possibly be as important as her message to him. She grabbed the quill in her mouth and took a stab at writing with her teeth. Unfortunately, that stab was more literal than intended, and she snapped the nib of the quill just as Fenris entered the room.

“Stop that.” He tried to pull the ruined quill out of her mouth, but Hawke found she did not want to let go at all. She tugged back, the rest of the quill crunching in her teeth.

“Have it then,” he sighed, moving to clean up his papers.

She dropped the quill on the floor. She’d been so certain that would work. Perhaps just the ink, then. If she spilled it, she could use her paws to draw out the message on the floor.

She put her paws back on the desk, ignoring Fenris’s hissed warning of “Porthos,” and she grabbed the inkpot.

“Put it down,” he commanded.

_No! Shan’t!_ she would have said if her mouth were not full of ink. She trotted out of the room with her prize, looking for a patch of floor large enough for her message.

Fenris followed her.

“Give it back,” he sighed.

Hawke ignored him. The grand hall would do nicely. Unfortunately, Fenris chose that moment to shove his hand in her mouth.

“Give me the ink.”

She had been about to put it down, but now she found she simply could not let go. Letting go was not an option now nor ever. She bared her teeth at him.

“I am certain ink is bad for dogs. You do not want that in your mouth,” he said, tugging harder.

Bad for dogs or no, Hawke would die before she relinquished her prize to him. She tugged. He let go, but her victory was short-lived. A moment later his hand passed through her snout and he snatched the inkwell. Hawke yelped, knowing on some level he had simply used the lyrium the phase through her, but on an entirely different and more canine level, she jumped, bonking his now-solid hand with her always-solid head. The ink spilled on her coat and on his feet, and it spilled even more when she snatched it from his hands and ran.

This action unraveled the last thread of Fenris’s patience. He tackled her. The inkwell popped out of her mouth and into the air, ink spraying everywhere including onto her tongue. It was _foul_ , and by the end of their tussle, Fenris held an empty inkwell in a glowing hand, black dripping down his hair and his cheek. 

He panted with anger and exertion and ordered her to spit. Hawke cowered, bitter ink in her mouth and staining her fur and Fenris looking absolutely furious at her. Dogs didn’t really spit. Their mouths were—they didn’t work like that. Her best option was just to drool on the floor and hope that appeased him while her legs shook. He clenched his jaw.

“If you die she’ll—she’ll never—” Fenris dropped his face into his hands, smearing more of the ink around, though Hawke suspected he didn’t care.

Now would be a good time to use all this ink and tell him that she was right here—but there wasn’t enough left on the floor for her to write her message with her stupid, clumsy paws. She barely managed to write the H in Hawke before it all dried up, and Fenris wasn’t even looking.

In a fit of anger and frustration, Hawke howled. _This is stupid_ , she wanted to shout, _Not having hands or words is stupid._ Fenris knelt next to her, right on the blasted H he hadn’t noticed, and H that meant _nothing_ without all the other letters, and patted her shoulder.

“I miss her as well,” he said.

Hawke howled louder.

When she at last calmed herself, Fenris looking on her solemnly, all he said was, “I’m afraid it’s bath time for both of us.” She meekly followed him to the mansion’s bathing chamber. Hawke had never been in this room before, though she supposed it wasn’t much different from any other bathing chamber in Hightown. Fenris might have made a joke about how the blood of Tevinter slaves flows through the pipes of all noble houses alike, or something equally bitter and cutting, but jokes were wasted on a dog, and Fenris seemed lost in thought.

Judging by the dust, he did not often use the tub. “Do you prefer warm or cold water?” he asked while dumping pail after pail of water into it.

“Woof.”

“Warm it is.” He activated the runes on the tub. Hawke couldn’t see a very dignified way for her get in, so with a sigh she jumped, splashing water everywhere.

“Thanks,” Fenris muttered before peeling off his shirt.

Prior to Hawke’s adventures as a dog, she had seen Fenris shirtless only a handful of times, completely naked only once. Each of those times had imprinted themselves on her memory, and each of those times had involved a sort of electric reaction of her body, a drying out of the mouth, heady anticipation and a shameful amount of desire.

This time, however, she felt nothing. Porthos, as a rule, did not feel sexual attraction to other beings due to certain modifications made early in his youth. He certainly had never shown any romantic interest in _people_ , and Hawke herself had been naked in front of him countless times, because he was a dog, and it didn’t matter. To a dog’s nose, she reasoned, all people were naked all the time.

And she was right, but Hawke still had a human mind, didn’t she? She still felt a fondness for Fenris that was at times overwhelming, and sure, this most recently translated to her wanting to sniff every inch of him and perhaps lick him, if she were being honest, but in a very platonic way. And while this was absolutely good news, seeing as he had no idea the dog in his bath was her, and he probably would not have stripped if he did, a knot of worry settled in her chest.

“I was going to get in first,” he grumbled, stepping over the side of the tub, “But I suppose we can do this together.” 

He didn’t sit, standing instead with his leggings rolled up over his calves. Leaning over her, he dumped a bucket of water over his head, running his fingers through his hair to get the ink out.

Hawke whined at the indignity of being washed with his wastewater. Once the water streaming from his hair stopped coming out black, he started working the ink out of her fur.

This was… nice. She could not see why Porthos complained so loudly every time she had tried to bathe him. It was basically a warm massage with her favorite person in the world. Her tail set to wagging.

“Oh, do you forgive me then for not allowing you to poison yourself?” he asked.

“Woof.”

He gave a weak laugh. Squatting, he hovered over her face to work out the ink where is stained her brow. And this, again, would have set Hawke the woman reeling with the closeness of it all. But other than a keen interest in the dinner she could still smell on his breath, Hawke felt nothing. No sparks, no tension, no yearning. Just a general happiness to be spending time with a person she loved.

Part of her missed it. But in a way it was easier.

It was late by the time they’d dried off. Fenris ignored the mess of ink in the grand hall, not that that was a surprise, and collapsed into his bed. Hawke looked about for a patch of rug and began pawing at it to make a sort of lump to sleep on.

“I know Hawke lets you sleep on her bed,” Fenris said without opening his eyes.

_I do not_ , Hawke thought, _I just wake up with him that way_. She wagged her tail.

“Very well. You may sleep by my feet.”

Hawke stared at him, her tail going a little faster. Was he really inviting her to share his bed? When she did not move, he opened one eye. “Well?” he asked her.

She bounded onto it, mindful of his feet more or less, walked a few tight circles, and thumped down next to his shins, curled up like a mabari croissant.

“Goodnight.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I uploaded this chapter on Sunday, and then last night shot up out of bed and realized I wanted to edit a LOT of it. So apologies for the re-upload. Most of the changes were to Hawke's inner dog-ologue.
> 
> OH ONE MORE THING:  
> I'm not sure how to tag this or trigger warning, but there is forced feeding in this chapter. As in someone forces Hawke the dog to take some medicine, which might be an uncomfortable read for some.

Art provided by the lovely [Lethendralis-Paints!](https://lethendralis-paints.tumblr.com/)

Hawke awoke in the middle of the night, too hot, with Fenris’s arm thrown across her. For one blessed moment she forgot she was a dog, and felt—well, it didn’t matter that she had finally discovered what it was to feel content. He thought she was Porthos, or he never would have snuggled her like this, and because she wasn’t Porthos, it was up to her to extract herself. It was false, this snuggle. He thought he was comforting a lonely dog, abandoned by his lifelong companion. But Hawke knew better.

He was comforting an idiot.

She heaved herself off the bed, Fenris only complaining a little. It was where she deserved to be, really.

She curled up on the cold, stone floor, and tried to think dog thoughts until sleep took her again. Counting squirrels or some such. Of course, this only got her excited, as did thinking about the meat-on-a-stick stall down in Lowtown, so human thoughts would have to do. Right after she dealt with this itch on her backside.

Hawke circled and circled, trying to reach the spot with her teeth, and, oh, there it was. That felt good. And as long as she had her snout in this direction, she might do a bit of grooming to undo the scrubbing Fenris had given her. Soap smelled just _wrong_ , and she wanted to smell like herself and—

Maker’s breath.

If she started licking herself, particularly in certain _places_ , there really was no coming back from that. She’d have to remain a dog forever because she simply wouldn’t be able to look anyone in the eye ever again, and as a dog her eyes only hit somewhere just above the knee. She hesitated, tongue out, her dog-self wanting to continue in her disgusting task, and the last remnants of Hawke holding strong, fighting it.

Fenris saved her from herself by waking up with a gasped, “Hawke!” His eyes landed on her, one hind foot in the air, tongue at the ready. He rubbed his eyes as Hawke found the strength to lower her leg. “I thought,” he said slowly, eyes still traveling the room, “For a moment I thought she was… here. It felt…” He sighed as he looked at her. “Just a dream, then.” 

She could sense his discomfort, hear it in his breathing, so she trotted over to him to investigate, and shoved her nose in his ear. He flinched away from her but huffed a small laugh. “Yes, you’re right. We’re in this together.” That was not what she meant, but it wasn’t the worst misunderstanding. Hawke dropped her head to rest on his mattress, content to wait for him to continue talking. “People don’t just disappear, Porthos. I should know. I’ve tried.”

She didn’t like the sound of self-pity in his voice, so she nuzzled him again, this time aiming for his shoulder. He moved a hand to pet her head, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

Hawke whined. _Yes. Yes, yes, yes._

“Sorry. I won’t trouble you with such thoughts.”

She watched him until he fell asleep again, breathing in time with him. She could probably watch him for hours longer, but Hawke had another idea. Not dirt, not ink, but things. Things could be used to spell words.

She trotted through the mansion, looking for anything that could be destroyed and carried in her mouth. There wasn’t much—old books weren’t the right shape and she wasn’t certain how to organize the moth-eaten tapestries into a message. In the end, she began chewing on furniture. It was not long until she had an entire pile of broken chair legs to arrange as she saw fit.

Best to keep things simple. Three bits of wood for the first letter, good enough. The second letter was trickier, too round, but maybe if she kept it all to capitals… yes. It would work.

She looked at her work, nosing it here and there to make sure it was perfectly understandable. But it wasn’t quite enough.

An arrow. She moved a few more bits of scrap until she had an arrow. If she stood in front of the arrowhead—that should do it. Fenris would absolutely understand her message and know what to do next.

Fenris did not understand her message.

When he finally awoke, the day already stale and old, Hawke impatiently herded him toward her work, nose poking at his calves while he grumbled.

“Can this wait?” he asked, and before Hawke could bonk him again and tell him it could not wait, he said, “At least let me find some breakfast.”

Her ears perked up. She liked that word. Yes, Hawke thought, this could wait until at least after breakfast.

She changed her mind when she saw what he planned on eating—bread with some sort of horrible spicy pickled vegetables on top. The wagging of her tail stopped as she pondered the smell of it. This was not _food_. This was… this was something else. She cocked her head at Fenris.

“These pickles are surprisingly good,” he defended in the face of her questioning scowl, “Almost as spicy as pickles should be.”

 _Food shouldn’t be spicy at all_ , she thought back at him.

“Have one,” he said, with some horrible ruined roughage in his hand that she shrank away from. He waited, one eyebrow raised, before eating it himself. “Suit yourself.”

Orana would never starve her like this, and Hawke was halfway through the mansion with the intent of heading home before she remembered why she had come here in the first place. Which was more important? Breakfast or letting her friends know she wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere?

Breakfast, definitely.

“Porthos?” Fenris called, and Hawke instinctively trotted back to him, tail wagging. She liked it when he said her name. Or, well, her other name. Her dog’s name. Whatever. “Was there something you wanted to show me?”

 _Yes_. She poked him in the calves again, her snout guiding him all the way to her message, despite his irritated noises.

He stepped into the room, her large piece-meal HAWKE made of his now-destroyed furniture unmissable. Before she could take her place by the little arrow at the bottom, however, Fenris had already staggered back into the doorway, gripping it until his knuckles were white. It wasn’t the reaction she’d expected, but she pushed past him anyway and sat in front of the arrow, tail wagging behind her, waiting for him to put it together.

He didn’t put it together.

He looked in horror at her hopeful face, her message behind her, before dropping his head into his hands, chest heaving. She smelled his sadness before she heard the hitch in his breath. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I don’t—I—I don’t know where she is.”

He repeated himself, and Hawke, unable to do a single useful thing, began to whine. This did not help. When Fenris stretched out a hand toward her, she quickly butted her head into it. “I’m sorry,” he told her, collapsing on the floor with his arms around her. “I’m sorry.”

He muttered words in Tevene, a few curses she recognized, other things she didn’t. She whined at him again, feeling an overwhelming urge to lick his face clean of the tears that marred it.

“I should have told her,” he said. “I wanted to. I should have… and she’s gone. She’s just… she’s gone.”

 _I’m right here_ , she wanted to say. Tried to say. She nuzzled him, pushed the full force of her body against him. He clung to her harder, but it wasn’t her, not really. He was holding onto a dog who had never hurt him or left him without a word.

It was difficult, but she extricated herself from him, leaving him in his heap.

More arrows. She needed more arrows. With an apology to her ancestors, she deconstructed the E from the end of her name and grabbed whatever other scrap was left. He couldn’t possibly miss five arrows on the floor when she sat directly between them all.

“Woof.”

Fenris wiped his face, leaning his back against the wall, feet splayed out in front. He turned bleary eyes on her.

“Woof,” she insisted, “Woof!”

He blinked, finally taking in all the arrows on the floor.

“Woof!”

His eyes scanned her work, over and over. “I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.”

Maker, and she thought he was the clever one between them. Hawke stood up, walked in a little circle, and planted herself between all the arrows again.

There it was—the smallest glimmer of understanding and possibly hope on his face. “Are you… Are you trying to tell me you know where Hawke is?”

She blinked at him, and he quickly added, “One woof for yes, two for no.”

“Woof.”

“Are you telling me she’s here?”

“Woof.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. “Are you telling me that you are Hawke?”

“Woof.”

“I’m talking to a dog,” he said quietly. Hawke let out a roaring bark at that. They had finally been getting somewhere. Fenris threw up his hands in acquiescence.

“If you are Hawke, where is Porthos?”

She blinked at him.

“Right, yes or no questions. Do you know where Porthos is?”

_No._

“Do you know how this happened?”

_Yes._

“Do you know how to fix it?”

_No._

He sighed. “It is magic, is it not?”

_Yes._

He took her to Merrill’s. Hawke had never been happier to go outside and walk around in her life. Hightown smelled even better than yesterday, and so did Fenris, for that matter, but most distracting were the rats of Lowtown. They smelled different than their Hightown counterparts, and Hawke found herself lunging after every passing shadow with murderous glee. Chasing bandits had never felt this fun or satisfying.

“Could you try to focus?” Fenris asked, as he found her in yet another alley.

_No._

He frowned at her, and she saw the doubt creep over his features. If she was to convince them all that she was Hawke, she should probably do a better job of acting like a human. She stood on her back two legs and took a few tottering steps forward in her best approximation of a biped. Fenris rolled his eyes.

“I’m glad that this is amusing for you, at least,” he muttered as she landed on her front paws again. Much better. She butted her head into his hand, forcing a pet from him. “Petting you has become a lot stranger,” he mused, but he did not stop.

Merrill was surprised to see them, no doubt Fenris had some horrible expression on his face, but Hawke was more interested in the smells coming from her kitchen. Now _that_ was food.

“Only take one, please,” Merrill called over her shoulder as Hawke grabbed a flatbread off her table.

“I have discovered Hawke’s whereabouts,” Fenris told her.

“Oh? Shall I grab my staff?”

Fenris shook his head. “She’s the dog.”

Merrill’s voice was kind as she replied. “Oh, Fenris, no. I’m afraid that’s Porthos. Poooorthos,” she repeated slowly, “That’s not Hawke.”

He ran an irritated hand through his hair. Having already wolfed down the bread, Hawke dropped her head on his lap and wagged her tail in encouragement. “She has somehow become the dog,” he insisted, “She… told me. She barks once for yes, twice for no.”

Hawke panted toward Merrill to confirm this with her best dog-smile. “Are you a good boy?” Merrill asked, fingers tickling Hawke’s chin.

“Woof,” she responded. _Wait, fuck, no_. Merrill tilted her head toward Fenris as if to say, _see?_ Hawke dropped to the ground and rolled on her back, feet in the air. Oh, she was stupid. She was so stupid she deserved to be a dog for the rest of her life.

“She can read and write. She _told_ me she is Hawke.”

Merrill sighed, but Hawke heard the tapping of a quill against an inkpot. “Here,” she said, offering it her. Hawke took the quill delicately in her mouth, remembering the last one. “Try not to break it, and tell me… hmm… what wouldn’t Porthos know? What about… the name of my Keeper?”

“Kaffas, Merrill, something she has a hope of spelling.”

“Alright then, what _about—"_

“Just tell us how this happened, Hawke.”

It took multiple attempts for her scribblings to be legible, and in the end, she broke the first quill. She’d never written anything with her teeth before, and the angle meant she couldn’t even see what she was doing. Still, between all the skeptical yet pitying looks from Merrill and the angry sighs of her own, she got out a message.

“Shooting star?” Merrill asked.

“Woof.”

Merrill hummed as she thought about that. “I'm familiar with that human folk tale. There are stories of spirits who, when crossing the Veil, will grant a wish if they hear it at just the right moment. It could be one of these spirits did this to Hawke, thinking they were granting a favor.”

“Can it be undone?” Fenris asked.

Merrill’s answer was a maze that Hawke could not navigate. Maybe, she decided is what Merrill meant to say. Maybe. Things that were done could almost always be undone, except when they couldn’t be. All this talking was getting rather boring, and Hawke thumped herself down by the fire as Fenris and Merrill continued talking.

“On the other hand, if Hawke is in the wrong shape, I know of a potion that would force her right again.”

This caught her ear. Both of them, in fact, as they angled toward Merrill. She did not like the sound of that. Her name wasn’t said again, though, and she snoozed peacefully while people worked around her.

She was woken up by a foul smell and Merrill’s cheerful voice. “All right, Hawke,” she said, “Drink up.”

Hawke wanted to make Merrill happy, she did, except that also, she really, truly didn’t. It smelled bad. Worse than the pickles bad. She backed away from Merrill, tail tucked, ears flat, even as a small part of her own mind screamed at her to just drink it and be done with it. _No_ , she thought, _no, no, no_.

“Hawke,” Fenris reprimanded her, but still she backed away. She bumped into Merrill’s bookshelf, multiple tomes falling to the floor and startling her. “ _No_!” Fenris shouted as Hawke scrabbled for the door.

She couldn’t open it, of course. The most she could do was point at it with her nose and hope someone would let her leave.

“Please, Hawke,” Fenris begged, “It’s for your own good.”

Hawke was certain there was nothing good in that vial Merrill held. She staunchly turned her head away from them, her mouth sealed shut.

“Sit,” Fenris ordered in his loudest, most authoritative voice.

Hawke sat.

“This potion will help you become human again,” he told her.

“Are we certain it’s her? Perhaps she’s happier this way.”

Hawke couldn’t say if she were happier. She wanted to make them happy, but she didn’t want that potion. Merrill and Fenris wouldn’t hurt her. She trusted them. She loved them. But she couldn’t bring herself to drink it. 

“Apologies,” Fenris said before shoving a hand in her mouth, forcing it open, and dumping the potion in. A lot of it spilled as Hawke thrashed, but a lot of it didn’t. He held her mouth closed then, hands tight around her snout as he prevented her from spitting it out. There was nothing for it. She swallowed.

Fenris released her, collapsing against the door, potion all down his front and in Hawke’s fur. Just after her bath, too. She butted her head into his hand again, to make sure he wasn’t too angry with her, and he patted her head without opening his eyes.

“Is this going to work?” he asked Merrill.

“I’ve never had a chance to use it before. We’ll just have to wait.” 

After an hour of Hawke doing nothing other than experiencing some uncomfortable stomach gurgles, Merrill was the first to give up. “Are you certain that this is Hawke? That you didn’t misunderstand Porthos’s message to you?”

“I am certain that he—that she--” Fenris huffed a curse under his breath. “I am certain of what the message meant.”

“Then I suggest you go star-gazing. Make a wish to undo the first one. Let me know if it works. Or if you want to go searching for her elsewhere.”

~

Hawke did not want to be picked up. She had four legs, they were meant to be on good, solid ground, and she was entirely too large to be hoisted up and thrown onto Fenris’s roof. Of course, once she landed, panting in fear, and Fenris arrived, panting in exertion, she was happy to spend an evening with her favorite person in the world. She padded to him, and when he sat, she thumped down next to him and laid her head on his knee.

“We’ll watch for stars,” he said, leaning back on his hands, “Hopefully, come morning, we will have reversed this.”

He stroked her ears as they waited. Fix it or no, this was nice. It wouldn’t be so bad, if they failed. If she stayed a dog. His dog. Getting to love him with her whole heart in a sort of innocent, slobbery way. Sleeping by his feet and protecting him from rats and enemies alike. It wouldn’t hurt all the time, like it did before.

“Eyes on the sky, Hawke,” he said, “No falling asleep.”

Hawke obediently turned her face skywards, but dog eyes weren’t that good at picking out stars. There was light up there to be sure, but it was all vague. Fenris would probably take care of it for them.

“If you really are Hawke,” Fenris said slowly, “And I haven’t entirely lost my mind…”

He trailed off, quiet for a while, and Hawke accepted that perhaps they had both just lost their minds. It made as much sense as anything. Could dogs have a crisis of identity? Perhaps she had always been Porthos all along. Perhaps Hawke _had_ died, and she was truly Porthos, who, in his grief, had decided to become her. How would she ever explain _that_ to anyone?

“Merrill said you made a wish.”

Her woof in response was barely audible. It was true. The memories were getting vaguer, but she had done this to herself. She looked out at the world and wished to be something she wasn’t, something simpler. She just didn’t want to be Hawke anymore. And if Merrill were right, some well-meaning spirit had given her exactly what she asked for. 

“I know these past few years have not been easy on you.”

“Woof.” She hadn’t meant to respond to that. She didn’t really feel it, anymore. It had all been difficult, but now it was easy. And yet, there was a creeping unease in the back of her mind, a sudden feeling that maybe she was forgetting something, or she had lost something.

“Hawke, there is something I should have told you a long time ago.”

She rested her head in her paws, still trying to see the stars. Something was wrong about all of this. Something was wrong with _her_.

“That night we spent together… I wanted to forget it. I wanted you to forget it. I thought it would be better.”

And through the haze of her dog-mind, she at a moment of some clarity. The pain of his rejection, the intensity of her feelings before all this came back to her in confusing rush. It might have been better, had she been able to forget. She’d tried, sort of. Wanted to try, maybe. And now, as a dog, she was forgetting. She loved Fenris, and it was easy now. Wasn’t it better this way?

“But it’s not better,” Fenris continued, “It was cowardice. I should have told you how I felt then, and every day after.”

Her dog ears must have been malfunctioning. Her dog heart was _definitely_ malfunctioning with how hard it was beating. The human voice in her head, almost extinguished, was breaking through now. She almost couldn’t hear his next words.

“If I had the chance, I would tell you that no life is worth living without you by my side. I would tell you…”

He trailed off, and the war within her settled for a moment. _I’ll always be by your side_ , she thought happily. She was his dog. There was nowhere else to be.

“I would tell you I love you,” he said, “I would tell you that my heart is yours now and always.”

Hawke wagged her tail. She liked those words. She also loved Fenris.

But somewhere inside of her, her tiny human voice was screaming now. _Stop being a dog!_ it was shouting, _Stop being a dog right now!_ But Hawke didn’t know how. The voice got louder, more insistent. _He loves you, you idiot! And now you’re stuck as a stupid, useless dog!_

Her tail stopped wagging. Hawke did not want to be a dog anymore. This was wrong. She didn’t want to be a dog at all.

She stared at the sky, at the stars she couldn’t see and thought as loud as she could, _I wish I were human,_ over and over, in case stars were falling somewhere, _I wish I were Hawke again._

Then she saw it—a shooting star. Bright in the sky and moving fast. Fenris snapped up into a sitting position, his hands in fists, and he closed his eyes tight. Hawke wished and wished, but when he opened his eyes, she was still just a dog. She couldn't bring herself to look at Fenris and see his reaction. 

The enormous sneeze that shook her entire body took her by surprise. Fenris startled next to her as well. She heard him lie down on the roof with a thump and a sigh. “Or… Merrill is right, Hawke is gone, and I am sitting on the roof, confessing my feelings to a dog. This is where life has taken me.”

 _No,_ she thought, though she did not woof twice. _No_. _Please don’t give up on me._

They stayed out there for hours longer in relative silence. Hawke saw two more shooting stars, but at the end of it, she remained a dog. 

She couldn’t ask him, _what happens if I stay a dog forever?_

“We’ll solve this, Hawke,” he said quietly, “And if we don’t… I remain at your side.”

She would have laughed, if dogs could laugh. She was at _his_ side from here on out. A sidekick, really. She woofed once—an affirmative.

It wasn’t quite dawn when Fenris helped her down from the roof. The sky had lightened enough to dim the stars beyond even his eyes, and Fenris was clearly low on hope. He sat on his bed and studied her, and once again she saw the doubt in his expression.

And he was right. She was more dog than Hawke now. If she was stuck this way, perhaps it was for the best if he thought Hawke was gone. Better to be in love with a dead woman than a dog, probably. She scratched an itch on her cheek by kicking herself repeatedly in the face, and this seemed to settle something for him.

“You’re free to sleep on the bed again, if you like,” he said.

She would like. She jumped up and took her spot by his feet.

“Good night, Po—good night.”

~

Hawke tried to ignore it when Fenris shoved her, her arms and legs being all rearranged by his sudden movements, but she was forced to rouse herself from sleep when he threw all of his blankets on top of her.

“Maker’s breath, Fenris, I can’t breathe,” she groaned, pawing them off until her face hit cool, free air. Then her words registered with her mind. “Maker’s breath,” she said again, feeling the words in her mouth, “Maker’s breath!”

She sat up straight in the bed, hands stretched out in front of her. “Fenris! I’m… I’m—”

“Completely nude,” he said, sitting on the edge of his bed, his back toward her. She looked down at her bare chest, a very human chest that led to a human belly and under the covers now her human legs. Fenris’s back shook with laughter. “Though I suppose it didn’t bother me yesterday,” he added, still laughing.

She wrapped the blanket around herself, tucking it so she was covered, then crawled over to hug Fenris from behind with her blessedly human arms. “I love you,” she said with her human words and her human mouth and her human joy, so much human joy, resting her cheek on the crown of his head, “My heart has always been yours.”

He turned around in her grasp to face her, peering up at her with eyes she could swear she was seeing for the first time. One hand found her hip and the other her jaw to guide her into him. Hawke leaned into his touch, but before he could kiss her, she opened her mouth and licked him from his chin, across his lips, over his cheek and up to the bridge of his nose. His eyes opened wide in shock, and Hawke laughed and laughed as she dropped back on the bed, Fenris chasing her only a moment later, pinning her down.

“I’ve wanted to do that for days,” she laughed.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” he replied, slating his mouth over hers. His thing was much better, she conceded, kissing him back with three years of denied passion.

Some hours later, Hawke walked back to her estate, wearing Fenris’s clothes and holding his hand and smiling so much she was certain it was blasphemous. She looked at him every once in a while, no longer surprised to find his face level with her own, but still very surprised to see him smiling back at her.

“Have I told you you smell amazing?” she asked.

“Yes, and it’s still very odd of you to say that. Are you ready?”

He squeezed her hand as she paused outside her front door. She nodded, pushing it open (and oh, how she had missed being able to open doors for herself).

Waiting inside, curled up by the fireplace, was Porthos, safe and sound, and happy to see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry for Hawke ruining the moment-- I warned you this fic existed to make me laugh! 
> 
> And I have half a little epilogue written up, so there will be a fourth "chapter" =) Thanks for coming along on this silly thing!


	4. Epilogue

“So what was your favorite part?” Varric had spread parchment across their table at the Hanged Man and sat there, quill in hand, taking notes as Hawke recounted her adventures as Porthos.

“Of being a dog?” Hawke asked, leaning further into Fenris’s arm. “The food. It tasted so much better. Maker, there was that lamb leg you gave me? I’ve never tasted such joy. There was depth to it. There were layers. Such rich meat and fat and gristle and—” 

“You’re drooling, Hawke,” Fenris murmured. 

She sighed just thinking about it. Nothing tasted as good now that she was human. She could hardly see the point of eating like this, though she was certain that would pass. On the plus side, as a dog, no one would give her any liquor, and in celebration of her return, Varric had pulled out his best whiskey.

“What was your least favorite part?” Varric asked.

“Fenris shoving a potion down my throat.”

“That was my least favorite part as well,” Fenris agreed.

“Oh?” Hawke asked, “It wasn’t the ink fight?”

“That was a close second.”

“Hold on,” Varric said, scribbling away, “I’m going to need to know more about this ink fight.”

“Where would you rank taking a bath with me?” Hawke asked, tilting her chin up toward Fenris and completely ignoring Varric.

Fenris groaned in the face of her smile. Holding a finger up, he stopped Isabela’s lurid comment before it could start. “Before anyone gets any ideas, I was clothed, and I was standing, and I thought she was Porthos.”

“I was completely naked,” Hawke assured the table.

“Taking a bath with a dog is still pretty weird behavior,” Anders said.

Fenris’s answer was simple. “I love dogs. I have always loved dogs.”

“So you bathe with them?”

“When we’re both covered in ink, yes.”

“What was it like having a tail?” Merrill interjected, ending their pointless argument.

“Not as fun as you’d think. I mean it was fun, obviously, who doesn’t like a little wiggle, but it’s hard to keep a secret with that thing wagging back there. No subtlety at all. And I banged it on everything. Poor Porthos probably has a bruise.”

“Where _was_ Porthos in all of this?” Anders asked, “Did he have your body the whole time?”

Hawke still had no answer for this, and frankly, at this point, she didn’t want one. “Enough with the questions! I’m back, never really left, would never abandon any of you lot so keep that in mind, and let’s just be happy I have two legs instead of four.”

“About that—” Isabela’s smile was all teeth as she leaned forward, her eyes darting between Hawke and Fenris—“When you finally got that bone you’ve been begging for for years—” Hawke squeezed her eyes closed, but there was nothing to do to stop Isabela from finishing her thought, not even her own giggles—“Did you do it doggy style?”

For a brief moment, Hawke wished Fenris’s arm was not wrapped so neatly around her shoulders, and that they had decided not to let anyone know of any developments with regards to their personal relations. Only for a brief moment, though, because pressed up against him like this, she felt the rumblings of his laughter before everyone else heard it leave his mouth, and she couldn’t help but join in.

When he caught his breath, Fenris responded, “I'm not telling you anything but this: There were no actual dogs involved.”

For a moment there was only the scratching of Varric’s quill across parchment. Then everyone began to talk at once, which was good because Hawke did not want to know what they were saying. Just the visuals were enough to get that Merrill was asking Isabela some very detailed questions and Isabela’s hands were making some of the obscenest gestures and Merrill was never going to be able to look at her again, except oh, she was looking at Hawke and nodding like this was all quite expected and normal, and somehow that was so much worse.

Hawke murmured into Fenris’s ear, “You’re not going to tell them about how I licked your feet, right?”

“That stays between us,” he promised. And oh, she loved that man, and she kissed him with the same passion and diligence which she had used to clean his feet only days before, a thought so absurd it had her breaking the kiss to laugh into his neck. That was alright—she’d have time to get it right, kiss him properly. For now she was warm and happy, and she’d answer questions all night about being a dog, because she loved everyone around this table even when they were barking and snarling at each other. It was a Hawke’s life, and she was grateful for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sad this fic is over. I may never have an idea this stupid and fun again. If you have a truly stupid idea for a fic, please let me know. I need joy in my life XD 
> 
> find me on tumblr as nug-juggler =)


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